Vulpem pilum mutat, non mores
by Tine An
Summary: Stabbed, late at night, in Hogsmeade Harry wakes up, face in the snow, in 1967. He isn't famous, he has no money, and no one has heard of Lord Voldemort. Becoming increasingly doubtful about the possibility of his return to the future he wonders if he may have to organise a little bit of a coup.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** Naturally, I did not invent Harry Potter and all he entails.

I, like we all do, play fast and loose with dates. Enjoy!

**Vulpem pilum mutat, non mores**

Heroes make mistakes too. Harry's mistake was that he didn't see the knife. One defeated Dark Lord, seven horcruxes, three years of Auror training, six months on the job and still he didn't see the knife. It was, had anyone known, a little bit embarrassing. He had been walking through Hogsmeade en route to the Three Broomsticks, late, one cold December evening, snow crunching underfoot, when a man's gruff voice had hailed him.

"Mr Potter!"

Turning, he observed a cloaked figure approaching. The man, taller than Harry, had extended his hand amiably.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter. I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for our society."

Harry, seeing no harm, smiled and nodded affably. He hadn't yet worked out an appropriate way to deal with these situations. He didn't want to leave people with the sense that he was falsely modest or, on the other hand, arrogant. Everyone, it seemed, even several years after Voldemort's defeat, wanted to shake his hand. These situations were not unlike his first encounter with the wizarding world in the Leaky Cauldron when he was an overwhelmed and confused eleven year old faced with meeting Quirrel for the first time.

Just as he'd been about to respond, bumblingly, in kind he'd been jerked forward by a sharp tug on his right hand. A strong pain spread sharply through his side. Looking down, surprised, he'd seen a dagger's ivory handle sticking out from somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs.

The cloaked man had leant forward and, as Harry, shocked into inaction, began to feel the warmth of his blood seeping through the cloth of his robes and across his skin, whispered harshly, "Don't let them die, Mr Potter!"

Looking up into the man's face, his vision blurring, Harry squinted trying to focus on his features. On the off chance he survived this attack he knew it would help to be able to identify his assailant. He was left only with the impression of a craggy nondescript face of indeterminate age before the world disappeared into blackness.

Harry awoke, face in the snow, to the sound of drunken singing closing-in on him.

"There once was a witch from Devon, who discovered the properties of seven…"

The entire left side of his face felt numb. With a groan he pushed himself to his knees. The pain in his side was dispersing. Looking down he saw no dagger, no blood, and feeling around, felt no wound. Had he dreamed it? No. He was after all, alone in the snow in Hogsmeade with no other explanation.

The singing stopped, and snow crunched nearby. He tensed.

"You alright, mate?" The voice was young. Cautiously, Harry checked the position of his wand. It was there in its holster just as always.

Looking up, he saw a tall young man bending over him, the glowing light from the festive candles hung around hogsmeade shone on his red hair as he swayed a little. He held a bottle in one hand, his wand in the other. Next to him stood a shorter dark-skinned man.

"Yes. I'm alright, thank you," said Harry, hefting himself to his feet. And, apart from feeling a little woozy, he was. Alright, that is. Somehow.

"You sure?" Slurred the red-haired.

Harry nodded.

"On our way to the Three Broomsticks — my brother's last weekend as a free man. You headed there?"

Harry nodded again. He hoped he hadn't been out of it for too long. Ginny might still be there.

"Walk with you then," declared the red-head as he turned and began weaving along the street.

His friend gave Harry a lopsided grin, the candlelight flickered across the white of his teeth. "Bit worse for wear," he said by way of an explanation.

Grinning back, Harry fell into step beside him. Who was Harry to judge a bit of revelry? It was a relief that people could afford to be so carefree these days.

"I'm Jonas, by the way, Jonas Jordan. Like your boots. Dragon hide?" Said the soberer of the revellers glancing down at Ginny's latest purchase for Harry (with his own money), whose post-Voldemort wardrobe she'd declared, "barely serviceable". There was a thud up ahead. Harry winced as the red-head recovered himself from a trip into the side of a building.

"Ouch. Thanks, and yes." Harry stuck out his hand. "I'm Harry."

Jonas grimaced a little as he shook Harry's hand, "Does it all the time. No serious damage yet. Good to meet you, Harry."

Ahead of them the red-head banged on a door. "Open up!"

"You dumb sod. It's the next door along." Called Jonas. He sighed, "Turning into his babysitter these days."

The Three Broomsticks, windows invitingly lit with lanterns, a plume of smoke winding its way from the chimney, beckoned. It sounded a little rowdier than usual inside, Harry could hear Madam Rosmerta's throaty laughter and, as they neared, the tinkling sound of glass breaking followed by a cry of mild outrage. The red-head got the door open on his second fumbling try and, following the two friends, Harry stepped over the threshold into the warmth of one of the several places in Britain he thought felt most like 'home'.

Almost immediately a shout went up. "Waaaaaayhey! Bill!"

Harry blinked. A table, they were arranged differently from the last time he had been here, surrounded by about five young men was cheering the red-head's arrival. Harry supposed they were more or less around his own age.

"Made it!" Stated the red-head, raising the bottle in his hand in toast to the table's occupants.

"It was a near thing." Jonas added.

"Come have a seat you two! Or is it three?"

"Oh, right. This is… um…" The red-head frowned at Harry, "Sorry, mate, didn't get your name."

"Harry."

"Harry. Found him in the snow. Get the man a drink Jonas!"

"You here for the party?" Asked a brunette at the table.

Harry quickly looked around, he couldn't see Ginny. "No. I was meant to meet someone but she…" Harry was cut off by another loud cheer from the table. Some of them stood.

"Arthur!"

Harry turned around. Behind him, having just entered the inn, a pair of antlers sticking out from between fiery locks stood a very, very, young Arthur Weasley.

Mr Weasley wore a large grin. "Hello chaps!"

"I say," called the brunette again, "what have you got on your head?"

"Muggle men are stags before their weddings!" Proclaimed Mr Weasley.

"What?"

"Yes," he insisted. "The brides are chickens!"

Slowly Harry began to feel a tingling in his arms and the beginnings of an horrible thought began to form. Had he…? Had the dagger…? But that wasn't possible.

Just as Harry was beginning to think he really should sit down he heard Madam Rosmerta's distinctive voice over the noise from the direction of the bar, "Bilius Weasley! If you think you can drink that fire whiskey, which I know you didn't buy here, in this pub you have another thing coming!"

Harry lost all feeling in his legs. Bilius…? Bilius Weasley? Ron's 'saw the grim and croaked' Uncle Bilius? He looked towards the bar. There behind the bench, glaring, hand's on her hip's, at Ron's uncle, stood Madam Rosmerta. She looked much younger than Harry had ever seen her, the crows feet were gone from around her eyes, her lips were fuller, her hair brighter. Realising he was more than a little woozy, for the second time that night, the world went dark for Harry Potter.

All major events in Harry's life seemed to be punctuated with periods of unconsciousness. As this seemed like it might be once such Major Event it came as no surprise to Harry that his vision was blurry or that their were disembodied voices around him to accompany a throbbing in his head.

"…Found him passed out in the snow on our…"

"…No, I don't know…"

"…Recognise him?"

"…His belt…. "

"…Not just drunk?"

"…St. Mungo's?"

"…Oh. He's waking up."

There was an intake of breath and momentary silence as Harry tried to focus on the faces crowded above him. He could make out the line of Mr. Weasley's antlers, and he thought he could distinguish Madam Rosmerta's bottle-blonde curls. He could definitely smell the butterscotch scent that he'd long ago come to associate with Butterbeer, Madam Rosmerta, and the Three Broomsticks.

It was Bilius who broke the silence. "You alright, mate?"

Deja vu, thought Harry, and he gave a groan. His head hurt.

"Hit your head on the way down, I'm afraid."

Harry thought the throbbing was a give away.

"Should we check his memory?" Harry didn't recognise this voice. Were a bunch of drunks about to administer first aid? He hoped they didn't have to do anything.

"How? We don't know anything about him." Rosmerta.

"We know his name." This was Mr Weasley. He wasn't totally useless in a crisis it had to be said.

"Hey," Harry thought this might be Jonas. "Hey, do you know your name?"

Harry couldn't find the right face to focus on, he wondered if they'd removed his glasses, but mustered a reply. "Harry."

"See, he's fine."

Mr Weasley spoke again, "Harry — do you know what day it is?"

Harry really hoped it was the same date here, wherever here was, as it had been before he was stabbed. "18th," he mumbled.

"Who's the current Minister for Magic?"

Harry cringed inwardly. Merlin's beard, what year did the Weasley's get married? He didn't know. Even if he did, he hadn't paid enough attention in History of Magic to know who the Minister was.

He side-stepped with, "I hate politics."

This invoked a few sniggers and a "Quite right, mate!" from Bilius.

"Well, he seems like he might do."

"Nothing he can't overcome! Prop him up, Arthur!"

"Let's get a drink down him!"

Harry wondered what the state of Hogwarts students would be if any of these people had worked in the hospital wing during his many unconscious stays. Did they expect him to join the party?

Fortunately, Rosmerta —whom he suspected of being the only sober one of the lot— intervened, "Arthur, we're mostly empty upstairs tonight — why don't you give me a hand helping him up? Hopefully he can sleep off whatever this is."

Mr Weasley must've nodded because next, with a great heave, the two of them had pulled Harry to his feet and were guiding him up the stairs. Harry stumbled once or twice — it must've been some knock the head. He thought that Mr Weasley's antlers might have caught on a door frame at one point; within a few minutes Harry was drifting off to sleep in one of the smaller rooms the Three Broomsticks had to offer. He would stress more in the morning. Right now, he thought he had a concussion. Or, maybe it was the shock. Or, maybe it was the loud rendition of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow he could make out through the floorboards that rendered him unable to think.

It was the smell of bacon cooking that woke him early. Harry had hoped, for the fleeting few seconds he'd been in that confused stage of waking between dreaming and reluctant movement, that last night had been a dream. But the bacon, and then the unfamiliar appearance of the room he was sleeping in, indicated otherwise. He really had ended up at Arthur Weasley's stag do. Harry thought he might cry. All he'd wanted, last night, was to see Ginny's smiling face as she celebrated making the Harpies. Instead he had no Ginny, no anybody or anything, really. And the dagger hadn't come through with him.

It was his stomach that prevented him from wallowing; the bacon making it rumble demandingly. And, he supposed he needed to get his hands on a copy of the Daily Prophet. After all, he didn't even know who the Minister for Magic was! So, after gingerly prodding the lump on his head, getting his boots back on (Rosmerta hadn't undressed him fully thank goodness), finding his glasses on the nightstand, and a quick glance at his wayward hair in the mirror he headed downstairs.

There was one elderly witch seated at a table by the door. She said good morning to Harry as he entered but looked back down at whatever she was reading when he nodded in response. He looked around. The Leaky Cauldron usually had a copy or two of the prophet around in the mornings, surely they… Oh. Harry spotted three neatly folded copies of the morning edition on the bar.

Picking a copy up he unfolded it. The headline, above the centrefold, read **_Gringott's Goblins Angered as_** **_Squib Rights Movement Stages Sit In_**_. _Harry didn't know there had been a Squib Rights Movement. It was the date that caused him pause. This was the Daily Prophet from 19th December 1967. Surprisingly, Harry felt a certain sense of relief; Voldemort hadn't even started his war yet! Could he, in the time it took him to find that dagger again, circumvent the wizarding war? He had to at least try.

There was a creaking of a door behind the bar and a portly, clean shaven, man, sporting a brown apron and dark robes, emerged and carried a steaming breakfast over to the witch by the door.

"Guid Mornin' to ye, laddie!" He said to Harry, "I'll be righ' wi' ye."

A wizard from the Goblin Liaison Office, read Harry, had said that 'the American's have given the Squibs inappropriate ideas.'

The portly man returned to behind the bar. "I heard ye had a fankle in the nicht."

"Yes." Said Harry.

"Rosmerta, the blonde lassie, she said ye had a wee rammie in the village afore?"

Harry nodded, supposing that he might well have had a 'wee rammie'. "That's right."

The man shook his head disapprovingly. "Young layabouts, I bet. Aye, well…. Now, can I ge' yer some scran?"

"Actually," said Harry, "I was wondering if you knew of anywhere I might find a job?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N — **Thank you to those who reviewed. I need any and all the help I can get, I'm sure.

Futher, my apologies for the short length of this chapter but it ends in an appropriate point in the plot for me.

**Chapter Two**

The portly purveyor of breakfast turned out to be the landlord of the Three Broomsticks. Would Harry be interested in working for him? He could offer over forty hours of work a week at five sickles per hour or four sickles ten knuts if Harry wanted a bunk in the attic. He was, he informed Harry, looking to reduce his own workload as he was "findin' it a wee bit difficult ta humf ma girth around in ma auld age." He patted his stomach laughingly. His name was Cyathus Leith, and Harry barely understood half of what came out of his mouth.

"Ye'd have ta cook. Can ye?"

"I can." Harry assured him, shocked to discover that years cooking some of the Dursley's more basic meals under Aunt Petunia's watchful eye might be about to come in handy. In fact, Harry prided himself, slightly, on his ability to fry a particularly excellent omelette.

"So, ye wan' the wark?"

Although he thought four sickles and ten knuts an hour wouldn't get him very far in either finding the dagger, the man who wielded it, some other time travelling device, or in preventing Voldemort's rise to power, Harry took the job. It was a roof over his head and he had a mere twenty galleons or so in the pouch attached to his auror's belt. Mr Leith clapped him on the shoulder.

"Guid laddie!" He proclaimed. "Ye can start just afore gloamin'."

After eating a healthy portion of Mr Leith's fried breakfast Harry went out into Hogsmeade. He had arrived back in time, or in a parallel universe – where ever this was —with the clothes on his back, his wand, his pouch of gold, and the few items inclosed in the small leather pockets that ran long his auror's belt. Therefore, he needed to fix his most immediate concern — a lack of clean clothes and toiletries.

Hogsmeade, it turned out, hadn't changed much between the years. It still looked, in the dim light of a winter's day, as picturesque as a christmas card. The snow, undisturbed so early in the morning, was pristinely white, festive reefs sat neatly on every door, and candles, ready to be lit at nightfall, hovered among the leafless trees. In the distance he could see the very tops of Hogwarts turrets, complete and without the scaffolding that had surrounded them since the battle. Across from the Three Broomsticks stood Honeydukes', its windows full of seasonal sweets; there were glacial snowflakes, ice mice, freshly baked cauldron cakes and, on a stand striped with red and white, sat some chocolate frogs. '**_Honeydukes' is pleased to present collectible Chocolate Frogs: one famous Wizard or Witch inside every box - 70% Croakoa_**_'_ read a carefully chalked sign within the display. Harry found this oddly calming, given his situation.

Next door to Honeydukes', in a building Harry had known to be occupied by Scrivenshaft's Quills, was a dimly lit shop simply named 'Olman's Antiques'. Through the tiny window panes Harry could see neatly arranged furniture, most of it wooden, creating aisles for customers to wander through and near the back a few shiny metallic pieces, probably cutlery, glinted from some shelving. It was not Harry's sort of shop. Further along the street, past the offices of the Wizarding Wireless Network and Dervish and Bangs, sat the infamous Zonko's. Harry grinned. He had many a happy memory of the terrorising outcomes of its products.

Making his way along, his steps leaving deep impressions in the snow, Harry ducked in through Zonko's door. The bell jingled but no one came from the back of the shop. Inside he found the easily recognisable sugar quills, frog-spawn soap, and a lot of dungbombs. The 1960's had the staples of wizarding jokes. On a table just inside the door something packed in soft bags was called Tabitha's Tuneful Tea-cosies: Songs for your Kettle. He winced, grandmother's across Britain must be cringing. A shelf just above Harry's eye level was home to Not-Your-Mother's Knitting Kits — submerge any knitted item in a small bucket of… something… and have wild and wonderful new knitwear. Mrs Weasley would no doubt have been outraged. Harry paused, wondering if Mrs Weasley _was_ outraged. Did blushing brides-to-be worry about knitwear? Finally, with a cursory glance through the glass cabinetry comprising a counter, where every shopkeeper places the smaller must have items, Harry left Zonko's.

Ignoring some of Hogsmeade's more practical shops, including Potage's Cauldrons, Dogweed and Deathcap, Melody's Wireless and Gramophones, Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment and Ollivanders, Harry headed for Gladrags Wizardwear. The window display was as lurid as ever; brightly coloured socks featured heavily given the December weather. Dobby, Harry remembered, had particularly enjoyed his pair of novelty socks. Idly, he wondered if Dobby had been born yet. What was the lifespan of a house-elf? Kreacher had been quite aged.

On the rack, taking pride of place in the centre of Gladrags' lower floor, hung several bright orange robes with purple detailing. Harry hoped those weren't for wizards. Heading past that rack and around a stand of blush-pink umbrella's that he could only think had been specifically stocked for the likes of Dolores Umbridge, he found the narrow staircase that would take him up to the second floor which was firmly labelled "Men's and Children's Wares".

On the second floor he located a corner of reasonably, and he used the term loosely, plain garments. The was a certain level of embroidered detail he felt a little uncomfortable about. Perhaps the 1960's was slightly more flamboyant than the nineties for wizards too. A quick check of his money — he had, in fact, seventeen galleons, thirteen sickles and forty-seven knuts to his name — and a glance at the price tags established that he could probably afford a few sets of the more serviceable (Ginny would have a fit) sensibly coloured pieces. He thought he could spare five galleons for the noble cause of looking presentable. With five galleons he could get a few shirts, a plain waistcoat, and two decent sets of robes. He would have to see about getting some muggle money for a few pairs of trousers, he could only scourgify his current pair a few times before the wear would show. Wearing robes without trousers felt a little odd to Harry. Overall, he was pleased.

It was the purchase of a razor that bothered him. Even in the muggle world they were notoriously pricey and their wasn't a potion or spell that could replicate a clean shave without the sense of cauterising one's face. Harry rather thought that, for now, he would have to forego this luxury. He didn't know how he felt about that.

The job at the Three Broomsticks, while somewhat fortuitous, turned out to be very hard work. That very first evening Harry, newly clad in his glad-rags, donned a heavy navy apron and realised there were so many practical things that Professor Flitwick had neglected to teach them in charms class. Rosmerta, in charge of ensuring Harry learnt the ropes, was astounded to discover he didn't even know basic dish washing charms — there were four to be performed in sequence; heat, suds, rinse and dry. It was a bit like a dishwashing machine on fast forward. Harry felt a little ashamed. Mrs Weasley, or Hermione, and lately Ginny had always done that sort of thing. At Hogwarts there was always the elves.

"Men!" Rosmerta declared, clearly tarnishing every member of the male sex with Harry's crimes.

Harry wanted to protest. He could do many household things! The muggle way.

Something must've shown on his face because Rosmerta relented from mass disapproval, adding, "Oh don't worry, love. Cyathus keeps a book of household charms in the kitchen, it's a little dated but everything in it is practical." She paused, thoughtfully, "Except that charm for polishing boots. It left white patches on Lucretia Prewett's Romanian heels. She's never forgiven me."

Harry had quickly agreed, "I'll start reading it first thing tomorrow."

Between washing the used tankards, glasses and tumblers and serving the patrons of the Three Brooksticks Harry felt rushed of his feet. Mr Diggle wanted two fingers of Ogden's fire whiskey, would Harry please see that the two young witches over by the window got a glass of gillywater each, did they have any coca-cola, Mrs Catchmore would like some butterbeer, more firewhiskey for Mr Diggle's friend, and on and on it went.

At about nine in the evening Harry had heard his name from across the floor.

"Haaaarry!" Bilius Weasley had arrived. Rosmerta, polishing up a few cleaned tankards with her wand next to Harry, sighed.

Harry smiled, this was something of a pavlovian reflex in him whenever he saw a Weasley. "Hi Bill."

Bilius Weasley made his way to the bar, he seemed to be managing much better than he had on his weaving journey through Hogsmeade the night before. Propping up the bar with his lanky frame he looked at Harry.

"Whatcha doin' here, mate? Been enslaved?"

Rosmerta interrupted before Harry could reply, "Pssht. Like you'd know what it means to work. Are you planning on paying for your drinks this evening?"

Bilius' jaw dropped in faux-outrage. "Rosmerta! I am insulted!"

Rolling her eyes Rosmerta, blonde hair bouncing, hefted a tray of glasses, intending to shelve them underneath the bar. "Unless he pays up front, don't serve him, Harry."

Bilius' eyebrows drew together. "She's a tough one, ain't she? Pity you, mate."

Harry rather thought that Bilius' was the only man pitying him. Rosmerta, all hips, cleavage, and hair, had been the object of many a Hogwarts school boy's affections. Ron, to Hermione's everlasting annoyance, had a particular soft spot for her and here Harry was, thirty-odd years in the past, with a much younger Rosmerta. He felt a little dizzy at the thought. This was so surreal.

He ignored Bilius' jibe. After all, Harry had more interest in getting along with someone he had to work with than agreeing with the comments of a drunkard. He said, "I can get you some water, if you'd like."

"Water?!"

"It's free," Harry explained. The disgusted curl of Bilius' lip reminded Harry a little bit of Draco Malfoy.

It turned out to be a routine. Every night at around nine, after many of the patrons began trickling home, Bilius' Weasley would trundle into the Three Broomsticks already in his cups. Rosmerta would give him grief to make sure he paid for what he drank. Harry would attempt to give him water. Bilius' would pay for what he could afford, and then, at last call, inform Harry and Rosmerta that they were "absolutely splendid folks" and head out the door.

"He had trouble," Rosmerta had said, mysteriously, one night. "Growing up."

Harry didn't like to ask what she meant.

After several days Mr Leith woke Harry exceptionally early one morning, declared Harry had the hang of things at the bar and that it was time he learnt "wha' was wha'" in the kitchen. Here, Harry appeared, thanks in part to Aunt Petunia and in part to the words of _Charms for a Charming Chef : a complete guide to culinary and cleaning duties in the nineteenth century_ to be a little quicker to learn in this regard. It was quite simple, on the day's Harry was rostered on the morning shift, between the hours of six and nine in the morning breakfast was served to those who asked for it. They order. Harry would cook it. Usually this included breakfast for the old witch, Mrs Cuffe, who Harry had seen seated by the door on his first day at the Three Broomsticks. She came in at seven thirty every morning. At nine the kitchen closed and he would clean it thoroughly. Then at 10 he would head upstairs to clean the bedrooms used by guests at the inn; with a few well placed charms this was relatively easy. In no time, Harry had earned back the cost of his new clothes.

It wasn't until Christmas Day that Harry truly had time to slow down and think about his situation in any great depth. The inn was closed, Rosmerta didn't live in, and Mr Leith had gone to visit his sister and her daughter's "bairns" so Harry liberated a bit of parchment, a quill, and ink from Mr Leith's inventory room and, WWN playing a questionable carol in the background, sat on a stool at the bar. He needed to organise his thoughts.

Yes, he was lonely. He missed his godson, Ron, Hermione, all the Weasleys, all his new friends at the auror corp, but most of all he missed Ginny. He missed how she smiled, her smell, knowing she was nearby, how eagerly she followed quidditch, she made him feel like he had someone, his own, very special, someone — a feeling he had never truly had. He found he even missed the times she was bossy. It was scary, how like her mother she could be. It was imperative therefore that he get back to Ginny. However, he had, he thought, made the right decision in sorting out his job security first.

'#1,' he wrote on the parchment, 'Keep busy.' As long as he was busy he couldn't mope. After all those long, lonely, summers at the Dursley's Harry knew the important of keeping oneself productive and busy.

Chewing on the end of the quill in for a moment he pondered his next point. He needed to find out more about time travel. The dagger had sent him back in time. Prior, Harry had thought only time turners could do so. There had been many of those in the Department of Mysteries. There was also the bell jar, but travelling through time in a very enclosed space was not what had happened to Harry. This was an entirely new method of time travel as far as he was concerned.

'#2 — find out more about time travel."

Underneath he wrote:

'#2a — is there a record of a time travel dagger?"

'#2b — what about paradoxes?'

Harry was unsure if he should be trying to change as little as possible. Was his future still there? Were the Weasley's sitting around on christmas day waiting for him to return? Or was the moment Harry was in the only point in time that existed? It was these sorts of questions that Hermione was usually good at answering.

'#2c — any evidence of parallel universes?'

Although Harry felt that with magic one should never doubt anything even he, the Boy-Who-Lived (twice), was a little skeptical about this possibility. Surely, if this was a parallel universe there would be discrepancies, even small ones, but so far everything Harry had seen in this reality seemed in keeping with what he knew of the past.

'Contingency Plan.' Harry underlined this.

'#1 — Find horcruxes: diary, ring, cup, locket, diadem(?).'

Nagini, Quirrel and Harry were all free in 1967. But was the diadem?

'#2 — Kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets for venom and safety of students.'

'#3 — Destroy horcruxes."

'#4 — Prevent Voldemort from obtaining a following and rising to power and/or creating further horcruxes.'

Sure, no problem, just single-handedly defeat Voldemort and unravel the mysteries of time travel all from his lowly job as a barman at the The Three Broomsticks.

Harry took his glasses off and lay his forehead on the bar and sighed in frustration. He just knew he was going to be in this for the long haul.

In the background the wireless crackled and the broadcasters voice announced that Nobby Leach, Minister for Magic, would now make his christmas speech.

_"Greetings Wizards, Witches and all other magical beings. Over the past year, there have been times of great frustration for many, disappointment for others and an immense sense of achievement for some. On this day that brings families together, let us not hold our differences…."_

Harry Potter lifted his head up and looked keenly at the wireless as the very early stages of a plan began to form. Screwing up the piece of parchment before him, he set it alight with a jab from his wand, picked up his quill and began anew. Ron and Hermione would be proud.

That evening, as the bell of the Hogwarts clock tower tolled the hour in the distance, Rosmerta sat down with an exhausted sigh. Harry, previously reluctantly engrossed in the _Charms for Charming Chefs_ section on maintaining oven temperatures with a wand, was surprised to see her.

"Merlin, Harry, love, you're a dream, sitting there, broodingly, with your glasses and wearing those snazzy boots. Where did you buy those, by the way?"

Harry flushed. He cleared is throated. "Rosmerta, why are you here?"

"Melodramatic mother. She thinks I'm not going anywhere in life, as if she was a great success herself. Drink?" She leaned over the bar to grab a bottle of Ogden's and two tumblers without waiting for a reponse. Harry had to hurriedly advert his gaze. Pouring a rather large measure into each, she continued. "Also, I thought you might like some company, love."

"Thanks," said Harry. Feeling a little better than he had earlier in the day. "I would. So, what's your mother do?"

"She's 'Dear Dot'."

Harry's eyes bugged. "In the Prophet?" He couldn't keep his face straight.

Rosmerta took a bleak-faced sip of Ogden's finest. "She doesn't sound remotely like that in real life, mind you. But the letters she wrote me at school were a nightmare, 'Dear Rosmerta. The tried and true methods of obtaining a man's affection are always the best. Never dress too primly (You can see I did take that one to heart), always moderate one's tone…' Edgar Bones used to read them aloud to the set."

"Oh," Harry felt a little awkward. "I'm sorry he did that."

She shook her head and grinned, "Oh no, I didn't mind. There used to be a team effort to owl back with the fictional 'Trials and Tribulations of Rosmerta Vane'. It used to really brass her off."

"Really? What did they put in?"

Brushing a lock of hair off her face and leaning back on her stool Rosmerta settled in to regaling Harry with stories that had caused her Agony Aunt mother to blush.

Harry, happily, thought this might be the beginning of his first real 1960's friendship. He went to bed very late that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

The New Year heralded a change in pace at the Three Broomsticks. Apparently, attendance at the pub had been erratic over the holiday period. Harry was soon enlightened. There was a group of clientele, largely ministry employees, whom Harry could only describe as 'confirmed bachelors', who came in for breakfast most days of the week. Mr Leith was on particularly good terms with a few of them, and Harry even recognised one or two faces from the ministry, one might even have been at his trial. A particularly stocky, slightly freckled, gentleman turned out to be a man referred to only as 'Perkins' and Harry thought he might have worked along side Mr Weasley at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Mrs Cuffe continued to sit at her table by the door each morning — Harry wondered if she had any family. Throughout the day there would be sporadic flurries of activity; sometimes friends or acquaintances would be meeting up, business lunches took place and sometimes a mother just wanted to get out of the house with her children. In the evening there were the regulars, like Bilius Weasley, and those who came in immediately after work to socialise. The pub saw quite a cross section of wizarding Britain. Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest and it was on these nights that Harry witnessed some of the livelier situations that occurred in the Three Broomsticks.

There was one particular incident a few days into January that stuck keenly in Harry's mind for several days following. It was a Friday evening, Rosmerta was out the back organising a new keg of mulled mead, and Harry was collecting used glasses from the tables. A dark haired customer, wearing a pointed beard and a caped sort of cloak, who Harry had recently furbished with a glass of red currant rum, walked, in an exaggerated manner toward a table near the stairs. He stopped and looked down at the table's occupant, a well presented man who was probably on the shadier side of forty.

"You." Red-currant-rum kicked a table leg. "You're in my seat."

The seated man glanced around, peering through dark, square rimmed spectacles that sat on a somewhat shapeless nose, "There are other empty seats, sir."

"No seat in here is fit for you, Squib. Get up." Glowered the first man.

A frown formed between thick eyebrows, "I'm sorry?"

"Up. NOW!"

Harry put down the tray he was putting glasses on, glancing round he noted other patrons were either staring rather too fixedly into their drinks or watching the proceeding, round eyed. He edged closer.

"I think you've mistaken me for…"

The bearded man brought his glass of rum down on the table with a great 'slam!' causing a bottle of butter beer to fall and smash on the floor. The bespectacled man jumped back in his chair a little.

"UP!"

With a jerk the victim in this not-even-remotely-intoxicated bar-room brawl stood.

"Hey!" Yelled Harry. Simultaneously two pairs of eyes turned on him, one glowering, the other wide with apprehension. "Mr.. Um.. ?" He raised his eyes brows in question at the victim.

"Whitehorn."

"Mr Whitehorn, please, sit back down. You, Mr…?"

"What's it to you, boy?" Growled the bully

Harry ignored this. "Look, either you calm down and take a seat away from Mr Whitehorn, or you leave."

"I've been bringing valuable business to this place for forty years and Cyathus knows it. You won't be telling me what to do." This man was reminding Harry increasingly of Uncle Vernon.

He sighed. "Yes, I will. I'm telling you to take a seat somewhere else."

Above his greying beard, the nameless man's nostrils twitched, and Harry's well trained instincts kicked in. Placing his wand hand firmly upon his wand's grip he held still, waiting. In a laboured motion the bully plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a short, dark coloured wand and brandished it at Harry.

"Make me, you impudent idiot."

With a practiced flick of his wrist, and a brief arc of red light that Harry was overly familiar with, Harry held the man's wand in his hand.

Pocketing his own wand and holding the other aloft, Harry said, "I will give this back to you at the door."

There was a pause, while the bully glared daggers at him. Harry glared back. With a huff the bully marched to the door of the pub. Flinging it open, he stepped into the snow and turned to look back in at Harry.

"Well?! Give me my wand!"

Walking over, Harry handed the wand back and shut the door firmly in his face. Mr Whitehorn, he saw, had sat back down and every eye in the place was on Harry. He felt himself flush a little.

Rosmerta, who had returned at some point, no doubt due to the raised voices, waved Harry over to the bar and, handing him a bottle of butter beer smiled at him and said, "My hero. Give this to him." She indicated Mr Whitehorn with a nod of her head. "On the house."

A routine was soon established; Harry was responsible for breakfast on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and worked through past the lunch hour. From Thursday onward he joined Rosmerta at the bar in the afternoon until closing. Monday was his day off. The first Monday off, after a quick trip via floo down to the Leaky Cauldron and into muggle London to find some decent trousers that were most definitely not bell bottoms, he wandered along to the Shrieking Shack. Harry knew, in order to find out more about time travel, he had three options; do the research himself, ask Albus Dumbledore, or ask the Department of Mysteries.

The latter two seemed incredibly risky — he couldn't trade on his name for help as how could they possibly know who 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' was. To freely ask anyone for details of time travel might be to give up any control he had on his life in this time. Even if he could put his memories in a pensieve to prove his time travel Harry did not pretend to know the inner workings of Professor Dumbledore's great mind; what might the Dumbledore of the 1960's consider to be for 'The Greater Good'? The Department of Mysteries was, of course, part of the ever fickle and unpredictable establishment. The Ministry was as subject to the tides of change as any individual. He rather thought there was a very high chance he might be locked up, by either party, to prevent 'temporal anomalies' and to let 'fate play its course'. Harry didn't like this idea. Without control he couldn't get home, nor could he deal with Mouldy-Voldy, temporal anomalies be damned. He wanted to see Ginny again, not be prevented for doing so, and if the very worst happened and he couldn't get back, he'd damn well make sure the countless people who died in both the wizarding wars had a better fighting chance this time round. He would also like to see Hermione put those changes she had planned for the Ministry in place while Harry actually got paid to round up one or two minor Dark Wizards who paled in comparison to Voldemort. So, Harry had concluded it was only practical to do the research himself. This, he knew, would involve getting into the Hogwart's library.

The shack, he realised as he rounded a bend in the path through the woods was not a shack at all. It stood proudly before its picturesque white backdrop. It looked to be in reasonably good repair — although perhaps it could do with a new paint job. The windows, though dulled a little with dirt, were not boarded up and a slightly rusty knocker hung on the door, still firmly on its hinges. He supposed, before the shacks use as a kind of quarantine for lycanthropy it had not actually been considered to be 'shrieking'. It must be another two years or so until the marauders start Hogwarts. Momentarily, he wondered if he might meet them.

He approached cautiously, wary of wards, but found little happened. Out of war time and in an all magical village like Hogsmeade perhaps there was little need for them. On closer inspection (Harry smashed his face to the window) the shack did not look to be inhabited. Although furnished, he could see the large claw footed dining table was coated in a heavy layer of dust. Through another window he saw a cluttered sitting room, there was a chair that looked like it might have been a piece that had littered the floor of the shack during his Hogwarts years, shredded by the claws of a werewolf.

He gave the window a jiggle. Unsurprisingly, it didn't budge. After a quick look around he wrapped the edge of his plain woollen cloak around his fist and hit the window. Hard. With the force of what felt like four bludgers hitting his chest Harry sailed backwards landing on his back several meters from the shack. All air expelled from his lungs it took him a moment his breath back. That sort of ward was not mentioned in the Auror's 'Stealth and Tracking' course. Most wards, apparently, acted over areas as a whole. In domes. Bugger. He had been hoping getting into the shack would be easier than it appeared it was going to be. Breaking into Honeydukes' cellar seem infinitely more reprehensible somehow.

Dejectedly, Harry returned to the Three Broomsticks.

Mr Leith, working the slow Monday, was giving a wave of his wand to affix a heavy piece of parchment to the section of the wall allocated for public notices. It was large, dwarfing the advertisements for entries into the British Isles Witches Duelling Championship and the sale of a litter of kneazles, and in big, carefully penned letters read '**_Mr Cyathus Leith is considering offers of purchase for the Three Broomsticks Inn'_**_. _

Harry blinked. "You're selling?!" He blurted.

Smiling genially, Mr Leith replied, "Aye, but dinnae worry, laddie. This howf has aye be'n a howf."

That, thought Harry, was decidedly unhelpful.

Nothing seemed to come of the advertisement over the next few days. For now, Harry seemed to still be gainfully employed. He supposed that even if Mr Leith did sell he might not lose his job. However, on their next shift together Rosmerta was decidedly less up beat than usual. She didn't seem to speak unless it was to a customer and her eyes had a tendency to flick toward the evidence of Mr Leith's seriously questionable decision, then her lips would purse like she'd selected a really bad every-flavour bean.

"Hey, Rosmerta?" Harry attempted to stimulate conversation.

"Mmm?"

"I've been reading your Mum's section of the Prophet."

"Oh?"

"Yea," Harry persevered. "Did you know people's _pets_ write in?"

Silence.

"Seriously. Yesterday, there was one that read _'I am an owl now. I was only an owlet when I wrote to you last'_. That sort of thing."

"Oh."

"And I think some teenagers are using it to flirt. Some bloke wrote _'Did I ever say to you Dot that I despised girls?…I think they are all 'much of a muchness'. But that isn't despising them.'_ Your mother was outraged at his insensitivity."

"Huh."

Harry gave up. Bilius Weasley wasn't reminded once to pay upfront that night.

The first major anomaly in Harry's work routine occurred on the last weekend of January. It was a Hogsmeade weekend for the Hogwart's students and suddenly a parade of infinitely more familiar faces descended upon the Three Broomsticks to binge on butterbeer and trample snow across Mr Leith's polished floor. Harry and Rosmerta stacked crates of butterbeer behind the counter in preparation, and even Mr Leith, who usually kept himself to the mornings, turned up to help serve the crowds.

The first student entered at around eleven o'clock. A Hufflepuff. Could she have a butter beer please? Yes she could. That'll be one sickle. Harry felt like a stuck record for most the day.

At one point, he became uncomfortably aware that a table nearby was giggling. At him! A blonde girl, in a Ravenclaw tie, kept glancing over her shoulder. Then, turning back to the rest of the group, would sort of titter, then more giggling would follow and the whole table would look at him.

"Rosmerta," he whispered in hushed tones. "Is there something on my face?"

"Yes, love. Those beautiful eyes."

The giggling got louder and Harry saw lines form around Rosmerta's own eyes — they were a nice blue — as she grinned.

"I think that table over there might need more butterbeer, don't you? Why don't you go and find out?" She gestured, with an obvious flourish, toward the gigglers.

Harry felt eerily reminded of the Yule Ball. Only this time he was older than the giggling school girls, and it was weird.

Uncomfortably he made his way over to the table. One girl, a blonde, kept on giggling.

He cleared his throat, "Can I get you some more to drink?"

"Oh yes," said the Ravenclaw. "I could definitely do with a long… cool… drink."

They all erupted into giggles. Merlin's beard. Did Ginny ever have this phase? Harry hoped not!

"Great, well, I'll get you a butterbeer then! What about the rest of you?"

"They'll have what I'm having. We're very good at sharing things." Said the Ravenclaw. Oddly no giggling followed this and all their eyes diverted to his left.

A stern voice said, "Girls."

"Professor!" Minerva McGonagall, dark hair tied up in her signature bun, and a hat perched primly on her head had arrived at the Three Broomsticks.

"You have their order then?" This was directed to Harry.

"Um… Yes."

"Well then, go and get it."

Harry barely stopped himself from replying with a hurried "Yes, Professor." Instead he nodded and returned to the bar.

"You," he informed Rosmerta a little bit stiffly, "will be delivering butterbeer to that table. McGonagall thinks I'm cradle-snatching."

And Rosmerta, apparently temporarily back on form, had the gall to say with a wink, "Do you prefer your women older then?"

Over the course of the day Harry suspected he saw the youthful faces of some of the members of the original Order of the Phoenix. He was positive he saw Alice Longbottom, although, of course, Longbottom wasn't her name yet. There was a blonde Gryffindor he suspected might be Marlene McKinnon — it was hard to tell, he'd only ever seen one picture of her. He saw a few death eaters too, Amycus Carrow had come in with what could only be a group of Slytherins. There was a round-faced boy who looked a little bit like Alastor Moody, although Harry was sure that it wasn't Alastor himself. A black boy, messily dressed, looked very much like both Jonas and Lee Jordan. And a tall gangly youth looked surprisingly similar to Millicent Bulstrode, Millicent herself had been much squatter. It was surprising, Harry thought, how many relatives of people he had known in the future whom he had never seen or heard of. He supposed that made sense, it seemed like the number of students was much larger than Harry's time at Hogwarts. People did not, after all, rush to have children in the middle of a war, coupled with the deaths of would-be parents it was hardly surprising the birth-rate had lowered.

The arrival of two older, identical, red-headed boys seemed to cause a bit of a stir in the already louder than usual inn. A table of people in a far corner had been waiting for them and hailed them on their entrance.

"Fabian! Gideon! Over here!"

Oh, Harry realised. It was Mrs Weasley's brothers – Fred and George senior.

"Hello! Chaps!" Said Fred, or Gideon and then, in true Fred and George fashion, they continued.

"What are we…"

"…All drinking then?"

"Butterbeer?"

"Thought we might try…"

"…some fire whiskey ourselves."

It was scary really, Harry thought. Fred and George had turned out just like their Uncles. Rosmerta was nearest and headed over to take their orders. Harry felt a little relieved.

"What can I get you today, troublemakers?"

The twins faces split into identical charming grins when they saw her and launched into their double act. "Ah. Rosmerta…"

"Looking beautiful today."

"As ever."

"When will you say yes?"

"To a date."

"With one of us?"

"Or both!"

Rosmerta laughed good naturedly. "I don't think even both of you together could handle me." Someone nearby wolf-whistled.

"It's the new barman, isn't it?" Several pairs of eyes turned Harry's way, he shifted a awkwardly on his feet.

"He's wooed you away from us all." Chimed in the other twin, an exaggeratedly morose expression on his face.

"A little on the short side, don't you think, Gideon?"

"Indeed, I do, Fabian."

"Maybe it's that beard. We can grow beards, Rosmerta."

"Or those glasses."

A sigh. "It's the studious yet manly, look isn't it?" Harry wondered what Hermione would have to say about that assessment of him.

"Studious? Rosmerta, just think how much more fun you would have with us."

"Yes. We're told we're very good company. Right?" The twin looked inclusively at the occupants of their table. They all nodded dutifully.

"Besides, we're very manly."

"We are?"

"We are."

"Oh. We are. See, Rosmerta — you really should say yes."

"To the date."

Rosmerta assumed a serious expression and said with great gravity. "I'm sorry boys, but Harry here has another attribute that I'm afraid you just can't compete with."

"Oh-Ho!" Said one twin, the others eyebrow's lifted suggestively. Harry contemplated suddenly remembering something that needed doing out the back soon.

"Yes," continued Rosmerta. "He's old enough to drink fire whiskey. Two butterbeers then, boys?"

Merlin's beard, Harry sighed in relief. He was sure he had been about to suffer through very public references to his 'wand-work'.

Harry it seemed was fated to run into almost every single one of Ron and Ginny's relatives. No sooner had the last of the Hogwarts students meandered out the door towards the castle allowing Harry and Rosmerta to cast a few quick scourgifies across the table tops than the usual sort of evening clientele began to wander in from the cold. This heralded the return of Arthur Weasley and his new bride. Mrs Weasley, it turned out, had been very trim in her youth albeit just as short. While her body had changed with age and six pregnancies her personality, it seemed, had not. She was less maternal, not yet having children to worry about. But, just as ferocious as Harry had known her to be.

"Rosmerta!" she declared upon entering. Mr Weasley followed behind her. "How _have _you been?"

Rosmerta's face, although approachable, looked marginally less thrilled in Harry's opinion. "Molly. I'm very well, thank you. How was the honeymoon?"

Mrs Weasley took a seat on a stool at the bar. "Oh it was just marvellous, thank you. We stayed in a lovely hotel in Egypt, it had the most beautiful view of the pyramids. Arthur just loved it, didn't you dear? Why, on the first night we…."

Mr Weasley pulled a bit of a face at Harry. "Glad to see you're back on your feet, old chap. Bilius said you'd got a job here."

"Yes. It was a bit of a rough night. Thank you, for your help. Congratulations, by the way. On the wedding," responded Harry. He felt a bit awkward. Mr Weasley had always been a father figure to Harry and here he was, more or less Harry's own age, being matey.

Mr Weasley nodded, "Thanks. We've got to save up for a house now of course."

"Oh." Harry paused, 'adult' discussions about finances were never something he had much experience with. "Well, what sort of place are you looking for?"

"Big enough for us and one or two children, I suppose. We want a few you see."

Harry grinned. "Yea." The Weasleys were good parents. "Well, there's always a few nice places down by Ottery St. Catchpole," he continued knowledgeably.

"Devon?" Mr Weasley queried. "You know I hadn't thought…I've always been a midlands chap, you know?"

"It's nice down there. The weather's quite mild. It's always good for quidditch."

Mr Weasley's eyes lit up. "I suppose it would be! Speaking of quidditch, what do you think of McCormack being named captain of the Prides? I'm not convinced it'll lead to much myself."

Harry frowned. He was pretty sure he'd read about that in 'Quidditch through the Ages'. Catriona McCormack had captained the Pride of Portree in the 60's he was certain. Hadn't her son been in the Weird Sisters? He thought the Prides had won the British and Irish League at least twice during her captaincy. "I shouldn't think it'll be so bad."

"Well, I'm a Canons fan myself."

Harry was about to reply when Mrs Weasley's voice became a little louder, "Really?!"

Rosemerta was nodding. "Yes."

"Well, that'll be a shame for you, won't it?"

Rosmerta's eyes seemed to narrow slightly. "I shouldn't think I'm guaranteed to lose my job," she retorted.

"If he does manage to sell… You never know. You wouldn't want that would you, dear?"

"Can I get you two something to drink?" Rosmerta asked, including Mr Weasley in the question.

"Oh, yes. We'll take a glass of gillywater each please."

"I'll bring it to your table."

Nodding Mr Weasley led his wife to a table near the windows. It was snowing outside again, Harry noted.

When the Weasley's had moved away Rosmerta let out a huff.

"What?" Asked Harry.

"That woman. Well, she's still a girl really."

"Huh?"

"She's convinced I'm out to steal Arthur, as if he weren't ten years my junior."

Harry blinked. Well he supposed Mrs Weasley might have sounded a _little_ terse, but only if he thought about it quite hard.

"Bloody Prewetts. They're all full of themselves, the lot of them."

Harry didn't know what to say. It turned out he didn't need to say anything. After a brief pause, during which Rosmerta pursed her lips, she continued thoughtfully. "Harry?"

"Yes?" He asked cautiously.

"How are you financially? I think we should buy the Inn."

Harry almost choked on his own saliva as he breathed in. "We?!"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** Thanks to everyone who gave me some feedback. It all helps me motivate myself to keep writing :-) Opinions on if this chapter is waaay too cliche are very welcome. Also, let me know if you spot any mistakes.

Enjoy.

**Chapter Four:**

In the end they bought the Three Broomsticks. Harry didn't think even fighting Voldemort, at any point over those seven gruelling years, had ever felt as risky as playing fast and lose with all ones worldly goods did. If he had failed then he wouldn't have had long to think about, he'd have been dead. It transpired that Rosmerta, whom Harry was shocked to hear really did still live at her mothers, had quite a bit of money saved up. It was not, she said, enough to cover the cost of the pub yet. Harry had pointed out that he had very limited funds, not even enough to cover one regular shipment of Ogden's Firewhiskey. Further, he argued, Rosmerta had barely known him more than a month — what was she thinking wanting to go into business with him? Besides, what on earth did Harry, a mere twenty-one years old, know about running a business?

Rosmerta assured him that being a barmaid for nearly a decade had taught her that she was an excellent judge of character. Harry, she said, was trustworthy despite his "slightly cagey nature" and she thought he'd make a good business partner; Harry had learnt quickly when he'd arrived at the Three Broomsticks, she suspected he probably had some "alright ideas", besides which he could cook better than she could, was a more threatening bouncer and he appealed to witches.

His "colleague", decided Harry, was trying to flatter him into agreeing.

He had said he'd think about it.

In the privacy of the attic, the roof slopping steeply over his small bed, Harry dwelt on the problem. In Harry's time Rosmerta had owned the Three Broomsticks, if she hadn't done so on her own someone else — not Harry — must have backed her. Maybe she bought it at a later date when she'd saved enough money, either from of Mr Leith or some future owner. Perhaps someone else, working in Harry's place, had invested with her. Either way it was Harry she had turned to now. This, it seemed, was the first significant thing Harry might do that would alter the future. Even if it was a very small alteration.

Since discovering the wizarding world and its wonders and pitfalls at age eleven Harry had never had to worry about money. There had been piles of it just sitting in his Gringotts vault buried under London left to him by his parents for almost anything he could want. Then, when he'd won the Triwizard Tournament, he'd just handed the large sum of 1000 galleons over to the Weasley Twins. It had felt like blood money to Harry but, boy, had the twins made good use of it. These days he thought he had slightly more appreciation for how much that money had meant to them. Money mattered. It helped with peace of mind and quality of life. And time.

The twins gratitude had prompted them to make sure he owned shares in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Throughout his campaign against Voldemort and his Auror training further dividends had been placed his Gringotts vault. Now, no longer housed cosily at Hogwarts, at the Burrow, or in the rent-free Grimmauld Place with house-elves or Mrs Weasley to sort things out, and with no idea of how long he'd be here or how much money he might need Harry knew he could really do with a good source of income. The kind of income that might, eventually, free up some of his hours so he could spend more time on more important things; like time travel, re-horcrux hunting and counteracting Voldemort's oncoming pureblood rhetoric. The kind of income that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had provided.

Harry knew that, currently, this would be best achieved by buying the Three Broomsticks with Rosmerta and then, possibly, giving it more appeal than he'd ever known it to have. Maybe they could sort out some music? Or organise a quiz night, or something? The problem was how. How could he help Rosmerta buy it? He has very little money of his own. Galloloans were not the answer; even Harry knew they were notorious for their high interest rates. That left him with his knowledge from the future, and quite frankly the only thing he could think of in that regard was to kill the basilisk and sell its parts for money. He was positive basilisk-bits would be worth quite a bit. He was pretty sure the skin was resistant to most magic, not unlike dragon hide. The venom was probably the most precious, but he kind of needed that.

Besides, he didn't think the sudden inundation of parts of a basilisk in varying shops in Knockturn Alley would go unnoticed. _Questions_ might be asked. Certainly, in the future, the Aurors in the Black Market Division would have made enquiries and possibly called in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Best not.

It wasn't like he could get into the school yet anyway.

This left Harry with his limited knowledge of the past. Or present, depending on ones point of view. Hermione would fair much better in this role, he thought. She knew the whys and wherefore of just about everything. He supposed that Hermione, discovering she was a witch, had felt the pressure to play catch-up on culture. This was something he had always disapproved of in himself. Hermione had read as much as she could about the wizarding world. Harry, whose role at the Dursley's had been to "do what you're told to do, boy", hadn't even thought to buy a few extra books on his first trip to Diagon Alley. Hermione had rushed to Flourish and Blotts and purchased "background reading". Harry, with all his piles of inherited galleons, had got the books on the list just like he'd been told too.

But then, on the other had, Harry was just more of a doer. That was his lot in life. To do. By that logic, his current quandary merely required him to 'do'.

So he did.

Harry, feeling slightly more nervous than perhaps a Gryffindor should, paid a trip to Greywacke's Wizarding Wagers. It was a small shop front located up a very narrow stairwell that sat on the border of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. One lone candle lit the stairs and as he climbed them Harry's boots left scuff marks in the dirt that covered them. The new master of cleaning charms within him cringed. A rickety door, located directly at the top of the stairs, opened into a dingy sort of room. Two windows looking onto Knockturn Alley let in two beams of light, the light furthest from the door fell upon a heavy wooden counter at which sat two very short individuals. In front, apparently awaiting the attention of the two at the table, stood four or so wizards from varying walks of life. One held a cane in one hand and an old-fashioned muggle top-hat in the other. Another, stood leaning indolently against the wall tapping his toe impatiently. Harry joined them and looked around.

The two men at the counter were perched on high low-backed stools and looked to be at least a little bit goblin; they had very long fingers and the white hair of goblins. In front of them large leather bound books lay open into which they were steadily inking figures with quills that looked ungainly in proportion with their height. Within a few moments the one nearest the wall and called, "Next!"

The wizard who had been leaning against the wall rushed forward, "I'd like to place ten galleons on the Magpies to win tomorrows match by 200 points."

"Name?" Asked the teller.

A few more men, and one old witch who carried her cat entered the premises while Harry waited. After about ten minutes it was his turn.

He approached and cleared his throat. "Hello. Um… I'd like to place 75 galleons, 14 sickles and 328 knuts on the Pride of Portree to win their next match."

"Portree?" The teller confirmed.

"Yes."

"The odds are against 19/1…"

With some deliberation Harry emptied out his money pouch onto the table. "All of it, please. On the Prides."

Someone behind him gave a low whistle, another wizard commented. "You must be barking, mate. With McCormack? It'll only end badly. She was absolutely rubbish in school. We didn't win a match."

Harry returned back to the Three Broomsticks without a knut to his name and waited.

The Prides played the Appleby Arrows that Saturday afternoon out at Exmoor and Harry attempted to listen to the match on the wireless while manning the bar. For most of the game the Arrows had been a little ahead and there had been quite a few fouls called — one of the Arrows had a tendency for blatching. Harry had begun to panic while he was pouring a couple of under-wand-age witches who had come in with a toy broomstick their butterbeer. Rosmerta was gamely trying to stop one of the two from flitting about at knee level on the stick and tripping the more elderly patrons.

The wireless blared away, "… _Jones has seen the snitch! He's streaked ahead. Those new Cleansweeps really do hold there own! I don't think McKinnon has even noticed… No, wait! McKinnon has realised, she won't make it though!…. Ouch. That was a bludger, folks. Very cannily aimed by Hamilton. That's knocked Jones off path. McKinnon's closing in now! Merlin's Beard! I think the bludger must've damaged Jones' broom. That doesn't look right to me…. He's back on course. Where's the sn…? Oh! They're neck on neck now! I think it might go to Jones if only he can…. It's McKinnon. McKinnon's got the snitch! It looks like the Pride of Portree won't be knocked out after all!"_

Harry found he had broken a sweat. He had begun to think that somehow his very presence, low key though it was, might somehow alter the outcome of the match. He could've served a player one too many drinks the night before for all he knew, or given them food poisoning, or tripped them over accidentally in Diagon Alley causing an injury.

He informed Rosmerta that he thought he'd have a few galleons together in a few weeks. And after the success of his first win felt a little more confident about continuing.

Keeping seventy-five galleons back from his winnings, trips to Greywacke's became a weekly occurrence for Harry. The Prides made there way, as he had remembered, all the way through to the final match for the League Cup. Harry placed his accumulating winnings on a win. However, after the Prides surprise turn around the odds were significantly more in their favour than when Harry had placed his first bet. He tried to remember the exact score. He couldn't. He was however fairly confident that they had won by a margin of over 100 points and that McKinnon caught the snitch in under three hours.

When the game aired on the wireless that day the Three Broomsticks was packed. The crowd was raucous, between people ordering their drinks and yelling their input at the responseless wireless Harry could hardly hear.

Bilius Weasley was there deploring the referee as if he could see the game himself, "That was CLEARLY haversacking…Blagging! Blagging, I say!"

All in all, Harry barely managed to keep track of the score until a tense silence fell over the room just he was pouring Mr Diggle his fourth honeyed mead.

"_McKinnon has caught the snitch folks. We didn't see it. But they've got a replay on the screen. It flew by and she just sort of…reached out and grabbed it."_ Said one commentator his voice disbelieving

"WHAT?!" Yelled Bilius.

The commentator's colleague, a witch, gave a bit of a mystified laugh, "_I think that's the most uneventful end I've ever seen to the League Cup."_

"_Well, the Prides have been surprising us in the second half of this season, it seems they were determined to surprise to the last_…_Ah, is that? It is…. The referee has confirmed the score now, folks. The Pride of Portree win with 330 points within 2 hours and 36 minutes. Puddlemere United have scored 220 points today. I really thought Puddlemere might have had it in the bag, didn't you Matilda?"_

A grin split across Harry's face. He felt memory hadn't failed him. Thank god for eleven year old Ronald Weasley's obsession with quidditch! And that Hermione wasn't here to have disapproved.

"Support the Prides, do you?" Asked Diggle, patiently awaiting his beverage.

Impossibly, Harry's grin grew even bigger. "I do, Mr Diggle!"

"Ah, well," He picked up his newly filled tankard. "Puddlemere will get it next year. Bit of a fluke for the Prides. Someone's gotta root for the underdogs though!"

Rosmerta, herself serving a Mr Horatius Neilsen — a man understood to have had an encounter with merpeople abroad leaving him wearing an eyepatch, looked over at Harry.

"I didn't know you support the Prides."

Harry's grin stayed firmly fixed to his face. "There's lots you don't know about me." He was too chuffed with his success to be 'slightly cagey'.

Rosmerta laughed. "You're right. I don't. But quidditch allegiances are something people can never seem to stop themselves talking about."

"Ah." Said Harry, "Well, I'm a recent convert."

Her eyes narrowed.

"What?" Asked Harry.

"We are still buying this place, aren't we?"

"Tomorrow, if you'd like."

Rosmerta grabbed him by his collar pulled him forward and kiss him firmly on his mouth. Mr Neilsen's eyes bugged.

Naturally, life presented Harry with a new dilemma. Greywacke's told Harry they would move the money to his Gringotts account, the sum was too large to hand over to him from their storefront. This was problematic. He was a little afraid Gringotts would have sneaky way of knowing just exactly who he was, or more likely who Harry was not. Unable, however, to talk Greywacke's into relinquishing the money to him then and there he headed to Gringotts to set up a vault. The initial request had been relatively straight forward, and Harry had to admit it was a relief to actually be able to set foot in the place without being met with a frigid silence. The Goblins, while pleased their financial institution was no longer feeling the ill effects of Lord Voldemort's War, had not been able to quite forgive Harry, Ron and Hermione for their successful burglary.

He had been lead to a side room with a small table surrounded by a few low wooden chairs. A goblin named Barlop, who was particularly tall for his species, had been introduced to him. Barlop produced a very large pile of forms and stacked them on the table between them, perched himself on a goblin-sized seat and peered at Harry.

"Name?"

Here was Harry's first problem. No one, at any point, had asked him for his surname. Mr Leith paid in cash for 'tax reasons, laddie', Greywacke's hadn't required one and certainly wouldn't care if he provided a false one — they just need a vault number now, and Rosmerta had never asked. Rosmerta, he realised never _asked_ questions, she just sort of absorbed information by keeping the conversation going. Was that the mark of a good gossiper?

"Harry."

Barlop's quill scratched away. "Your full name?"

Obviously. However, Harry couldn't continue to be a Potter, could he? There were other Potters alive — his dad, his grandparents and there was probably an old great-great-aunt still clinging to life somewhere. People seemed to live forever in the wizarding world. The Potters had their own vaults. They probably knew who else was a Potter as well, if they were anything like the Blacks (even without the pureblood mania) it'd be written down somewhere. He didn't want to randomly appear as some Potter-fraud or suspected illegitimate child of an old pureblood family; that would cause trouble. He needed a new surname. In hindsight he supposed he should have put more thought into the name he was burdening himself with. He'd had a decent amount of time during which he should have thought about it, after all. He could've come up with something cool, something that left a specific impression on people. Fictional characters always had short sharp names — Clark Kent, for example. The founders of Hogwarts had alliterative names — he could've been Harald Hardrada like the old muggle king. Harry, however, was not an author or an aptly named historical figure and simply, uncreatively, dropped Potter.

So out of his mouth came, "James. My name is Harry James." As soon as it was out he realised his own genius. Harry James would not be a lie if ever he was placed under veritiserum. He mentally patted himself on his back.

"No middle name?" Harry shook his head and Barlop wrote this down nodding a bit. Maybe he approved of Harry's short name. Goblins didn't seem to have surnames either.

"Identification?"

"Er… I don't have any."

"No apparition license?" Not in this decade.

"No. I'm sorry."

Barlop seemed to bare a few of his teeth — in disapproval over Harry's perceived inability to apparate, perhaps. Harry wasn't certain.

"Are you intending to remove funds from another vault into your new vault yourself?"

"Oh. No. I am expecting a payment though."

"Very well. Your wand may serve as identification for the future. May I see it?"

Harry placed it on the table. Goblins, banned from the use of wands, tended not to touch the things. Barlop made same notes that seemed a lot longer than the length and material of Harry's wand and that seemed to be that regarding identification to Harry's relief. He'd been worried there would be something creepy to do with blood or that he wouldn't be allowed a vault at all.

"Mr James, what level would you like your vault to be on?"

"Um… is there a particular change in cost?"

"There is monthly fee on every vault. It increased by a galleon for each level. The lower your level is underground the more security the cart will pass through."

No wizard knew that better than Harry. Well, he didn't need a dragon to guard his vault.

"I suppose level six or so will do. Something mid-level." He paused. "Barlop, is there anything you can do so that someone can't beat me in a duel, take my wand, steal my vault key, impersonate me with polyjuice potion and break into my vault?"

The goblin's already very thin lips almost disappeared as he pursed them. He clicked his tongue. "Gringott's Bank takes good care of its treasure, Mr James, but we do not use blood magicks! Any extra security _you_ feel _you_ may need is entirely your own problem and must be contained within the interior of your vault."

Oops. Harry tried to assume as amiable an expression as possible. "Sorry I wasn't asking for anything like that… I just meant… Well, never mind."

Barlop stared at him for a moment, then passed Harry the quill. "I need your signature here, here and here." He pointed with a grizzled finger to three separate forms.

Harry did so, the ink staining his fingers.

"Follow me, Mr James."

For all of about one minute Harry thought he'd screwed up and that no vault would be forthcoming. However, Barlop led him towards the bank's nausea inducing carts and ordered Harry to step into one. After two hectic rides Harry left with the key to vault 687 — a vault apparently not currently in use by any Potter, or anyone else. Sometimes Harry James believed in fate. As he left, he cast a look over his shoulder into the undragon-damaged hall of Gringotts. Now, that part, he thought, was nice. The goblins were good at imposing architecture. Barlop, he noted, was conversing with the head teller.

Greywacke's moved the money to Harry the next day. Rosmerta worked quickly, appearing to know exactly what needed to be done to purchase the inn. She spoke with Mr Leith and then produced more forms than even Gringotts had for Harry to sign. He made sure to read them. Apparently they were creating a company — 'The Hogsmeade Dehydration and Rehydration Company'.

"Seriously?" Harry said upon reading this. "That's poor marketing."

"It's not like anyone is actually going to see that, love. This inn has always been the Three Broomsticks. Do you have a better idea?"

"Um... Vane and James, Inc.?"

"James? That's your surname? I thought it was going to be something embarrassing — like Longbottom. I've always felt sorry for them. Or that you had a relative who was recently sent to Azkaban."

Maybe Harry could arrange for her to marry a Longbottom this time round. Hadn't Neville had an uncle of some sort?

She continued, "Vane and James sounds trite. We're not tailors."

So The Hogsmeade Dehydration and Rehydration Company was born. Sirius probably would have been proud.

Then there was a whole lot of forms to do with shares, directorship, money, an agreement of sale, and insurance applications. The Three Broomsticks changed hands within the week and Harry, once again, had very little in the way of liquid assets.

"Right!" Said Rosmerta as they stood around in the middle of the main floor of the pub well after midnight. She looked around. "What are we going to do to the place?"

Harry grinned, "I have some ideas."

Despite having participated in rebuilding Hogwarts after the war most the work on the castle had been done by teams of Ministry officials, people's grandfather's elderly friends "who knew a thing or know about this sort of thing" and the house-elves so Harry had a very limited knowledge of the magic used in buildings. There had been a lot of standing around and gesticulating involved. He still didn't understand how the Burrow was kept standing. Rosmerta knew nothing at all on the subject but she swore she could handle a bit of minor transfiguration and a few charms for redecorating. So Harry headed to Tomes and Scrolls, Hogsmeade's local bookshop, and nosed around for anything that might help them rejig the attic at the very least. There were plenty of books on gardening, degnoming had a whole book just to itself, a book on potions for the household, books for the aspiring clock maker, a book on the usefulness of hippogriff feathers for dusting, specific books on how to charm and transfigure your new-borns bassinet, a book on brewing (Harry picked this one up) and even five ways to control your nose hair.

Unable to find a single text that compiled useful spells for interior renovations into one volume he acquired the attention of the shop attendant who, looking at him through a pair of pince-nez, informed him, "Unfortunately I don't think anyone has written such a book."

Harry had purchased the book on brewing and been about to leave when she had stopped him and said, "If you're looking for help with something you might enquire at Honeydukes. Mr Flume did some work for Olman's Antiques on their shelving which turned out quite nicely."

Mr Flume it turned out was not Mr Ambrosius Flume, the owner and crafter of Honeydukes' Sweetshop, but Mr Ammon Flume his very old grandfather. He looked much older than Albus Dumbledore ever had and was, without doubt, what Ron would have called "a properly grumpy old git".

Harry had visited Honeydukes to ask for him, explaining their need for help with renovations. The younger Flume had directed Harry out the back of the shop saying, "He's usually in his workroom at this time of day."

The 'workroom' was a narrow space lined by two wooden counters and full of clutter. There were strange tools that looked nothing like Uncle Vernon had ever owned hanging from every inch of the wall. Pieces of wood of varying shapes and sizes were scattered along the counters and, seated on a tall stool and stooped over what looked like some form of carved box poking at it with a wand, sat an old man in plain brown robes with deep folds in his skin and a pipe lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Harry cleared his throat and spoke a little loudlier than he might usually. "Excuse me, sir?"

Mr Flume looked up unalarmed, "No need to shout, boy. Who are you?"

"Harry James, sir. I own the Three Broomsticks."

A snort. "You don't look old enough to apparate."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Look, I was wondering if you were interested in some work."

"What's this look like to you?" Mr Flume have the box on the counter a jab with his wand. A spark admitted from it's tip.

"More work then."

"Don't need more work."

Harry sighed. "My business partner and I, we want to make some renovations."

"To the old inn?"

"Yes."

A gleam appeared in watery blue eyes. "Bought if from Leith have you?"

"That's right. We were wondering if you might be interested in helping us out? At least give us a quote."

Mr Flume appeared to consider the matter. "I'll come round tomorrow morning. Just to look mind you. Ain't decided if I'm interested yet." He drew on his pipe and looked backed down at the box.

Harry didn't bother saying bye.

The following morning Mr Flume turned up when it was barely light. Harry, who was preparing the kitchen for the morning, barely heard him come in and was surprised to find him loping into the kitchen wand in hand.

Obviously not one to bother with niceties he opened with, "Been poking around outside. You got an extra level hidden in here somewhere?"

Harry blinked. "No… I think it's just this floor, the rooms upstairs, the attic and the cellar."

Flume shook his head. "That's not right." He wander down the length of the kitchen, an L shaped room, and looked around the corner.

"Cellar come in up here?"

"No, in the supply room, off the bar. It's through that wall though, I think."

"Huh."

Mr Flume then wandered out of the kitchen, Harry prudently followed him, and went behind the bar into the supply room.

"Huh." He said again, one hand scratched his jaw pensively. "What are you wanting done then?"

Harry frowned, confused. "Um.. We were thinking we need to put more rooms in the attic, another bedroom, a living space, bathroom — that sort of thing. It's all just one big space up there at the moment. A few more windows too. Also, we'd like to move the bar to the far wall. A couple of the private rooms need to be have their walls knocked through to expand the space a little bit. And, maybe a new staircase and balustrades for the upper floor."

"Easy enough bit of wand work, all that. Not certain bout the attic though."

"I'll take you up."

Mr Flume meandered behind him, stopping now and then to peer or prod at a piece of woodwork, or to hit a section of the wall. At one point he, strangely, seemed to bounce on the spot on the stairs leading from the upstairs hall to the attic.

The attic itself he deemed "workable" and after jiggling the small window that opened out onto Hogsmeade from the roof near Harry's bed. He turned and said, "Think I can do it all for you."

"Great!" said Harry, "How much will it cost?"

Pulling his pipe from his pocket and placing it, unlit, between his lips Mr Flume appeared to give this thought. "Not much use for gold. Give me a couple of cases of Blishen's finest and we'll call it even."

Blishen's was _quite_ expensive nevertheless Harry agreed. "Done. Will it take long?"

"Eh… A day or two. Might need to get some new woods. I'll have to measure up." Pulling a measuring tape, not unlike Mr Ollivander's, from his pocket Flume set about letting the tape measure the room and scratched down some numbers on what looked like a bit of blackboard. Harry left him to it.

It eventuated that Mr Flume spent monday and tuesday of the following week performing their renovations. The whole process was a lot faster than any muggle construction and definitely involved a lot less banging. However, every now and then the entire building would seem to give a bit of a heave, creak loudly and shudder. On the occasion he was doing the downstairs staircase and moving the bar – which looked to Harry like apparating a jigsaw piece by piece he insisted on turning on the wireless quite loudly.

Mr Flume apparently was an avid fan of duelling however what they heard on the radio held far greater importance for Harry than it did for Mr Flume. It was more important to him than hearing the Prides had won the League Cup.

"_Yes, Derek, and we all know the increase in popularity duelling has seen since Albus Dumbledore's defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald. Sponsors are lining up to have their name attached to one or other of the competitions. These competitions have become very tough experiences. The calibre of some of the witches and wizards! Why, the final of last year's All-England Wizarding Duelling Championship went on for over two hours. The physical and mental fatigue some of these competitors go through is staggering."_

"_That's definitely true. It's not uncommon to hear of a witch fainting after a long duel. Now, there's a rumour Filius Flitwick, the part-goblin, may be entering the Dunstable Duelling Championship. It's been a few years since we've seen him take to the piste but I know I would pay good money to see him fight."_

"_And you may well have too. The tickets are very nearly sold out. Of course, plenty of competitors enter the Dunstable Championship from outside Britain bringing with them their own supporters. The Russian Alexander Vagin won last year and he's been taking titles in championships throughout Europe for the past decade. He's known for his quick, decisive fights and heavy use of fire. If Flitwick has stayed fit and his charmwork is en forme after his time off the circuit it would be quite something to see him and Vagin in the final."_

"_Indeed. Now, what do you think the outcome of this morning's final of British Isles Witches Duelling Championship might mean for those placing their bets for Dunstable ahead of time? Are any of the ladies in with a chance?"_

"_Ah. Well, that competition was a _very _interesting assembly of some prominent witches. The three time world champion Madame Novak was there spectating, and the Minister for Magic of Sweden, Ingrid Gunvaldsson, put in an appearance at the final. Madame Armstrong of Stornaway, a retired Auror and last years runner up, drew ahead with a very fast piece of transfiguration on Miss Black's hand. It drove Miss Black to switch wand arms, and fighting with your off-arm slows you down of course, not to mention the wand might not like it. Inevitably, the fight went to Armstrong who finished with a very flamboyant expalliarmus. It's expected that both ladies will be seen on the pistes at Dunstable. Madame Armstrong is, no doubt, in with a very good chance and I don't think anyone should be ruling Miss Black out just yet. She won all her previous fights at the B.I.W quite soundly and has particularly good offensive sequences. I believe she's only nineteen, so if she's not a threat this year she will be in the future. After all, she's probably has a good eighty years of competitive duelling ahead of her if she's so inclined."_

"_Doesn't sound like she's quite up to beating any wizards yet! Now of course, the Durmstrang Institute will be holding its annual student championship in a few months. Do you think we'll be seeing any up and coming wizarding talent there?"_

Harry felt ill. Were they talking about Bellatrix Lestrange? Sirius' cousin and murderer? Andromeda, Teddy's grandmother, he knew must still be in school. It must be Bellatrix. She'd been a _duellist_? He supposed it only made sense, even after years in Azkaban and totally deranged she'd been the last death eater standing, killed only because Molly Weasley had the lethal adrenaline rush of an avenging mother. Dumbledore probably would've said she'd been killed by Love. Hermione, Ginny and Luna had all fought her simultaneously, she'd deflected Dumbledore's attacks in the Department of Mysteries, she'd killed the talented Tonks and injured Kingsley. Had people been afraid of her from her name alone _before_ she tortured the Longbottoms? Was she already mad then? Was she mad now?

"Huh." Mr. Flume Harry's thoughts, "Sounds like a plain ferbrachious transfiguration. No way a Black doesn't know what an oncoming ferbrachious looks like. Though she is mighty young."

Harry focussed his attention on Mr Flume, "Ferbrachious?"

"Yea. Turns the hand and forearm into iron. Impedes wandwork. Don't you pay any attention to duelling, boy?"

"Er… I'm more of a quidditch fan, I guess."

"Pft. Bunch of namby-pambys flitting about on brooms like they're Merlin's own. All they do is muck about until some other ponce eventually spots a sparkly bit of jewellery in the air. No skill in that."

Harry, trained Auror, defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and former seeker thought he was entitled to feel more than a little miffed at this observation.

He changed the subject. "Mr Flume? How much does a ticket for the Dunstable Championship cost?"

Rosmerta was present when Mr Flume reveal his Great Discovery. All his prodding, kicking and stomping at random had had purpose. There were _rooms,_ he declared, behind the supply room.

Rosmerta and Harry dutifully followed his imperative wave of his pipe. "Been shut up for years!"

In the supply room they were confronted with a blank wall. Mr Flume drew his wand and a tingle began at the back of Harry's neck. He just knew what was about to happen.

It was not unlike accessing Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron. With four very firm taps of his wand in what looked like the shape of a cross, kind of like that sign Harry knew Catholics make, a piece of the wall seemed to slide sideways revealing a low and very short opening. Mr Flume went through and Harry eagerly ducked through. Rosmerta, after a hesitant paused, followed at the back.

There were solid stone steps that lead them down a short way into a darkened area. Harry drew his wand and with a quick 'lumos' they could see the length of a darkened corridor, its ceiling not very far about Harry's head.

"Where does it go?" Rosmerta asked, her tone reverently hushed.

"If we knew we wouldn't be down here in the dark with out wands lit, would we?" Said Mr Flume.

Rosmerta rolled her eyes. Harry took a step forward a long the corridor. There appeared to be elaborately wrought fittings every couple of feet into which lit torches could be placed. He continued along. There were a few doors of very heavy oak and with similarly wrought handles. Heaving open the nearest he peered inside, thrusting his wand through the door. Behind it was a long empty windowless room. Rooms of similar sizes were behind all the other doors. Some had some tables in, others looked like that had what might have once been bunk beds within.

"Where, exactly, is all this?" He asked Mr Flume.

"On top of your cellar."

"On top?!" Rosmerta quizzed.

"Yup." And that, apparently, was all the explanation they were getting.

Behind the next door Harry found a rack with a lone rusting sword barely hanging from it. "You know what. I think this was goblin's."

"Goblins?!"

Mr Flume nodded. "Boy's right."

"They say this inn was their headquarters for some rebellion or other. In 1612." Said Harry, knowledgeably. Hermione would be so proud right now. He held up the sword, "And this looks like Goblin work."

"Merlin's beard." Rosmerta looked around. "Do you think they'd mind if we used the space?"

Harry wondered this too. Tricky creatures Goblins.

"Don't see why." Observed Mr Flume, "Looks like the cleared out long ago."

"We should see if we can clean in up. We could probably use it." Harry grinned at this. Rosmerta, so practical. And he had an idea or two himself.

At the end of the corridor there as a pair of taller doors and, Harry and Mr Flume grabbing one each and pulling, they opened onto a very large room with a high vaulted ceiling unlike the rest of the rooms. If it had a dias and an enchanted sky it might've looked like the Great Hall at Hogwarts. It was as empty as the others.

"We can definitely use this space," Harry agreed. He definitely had an idea.

Mr Flume scratched his jaw as he did whenever he was thinking about something. "Shouldn't wonder if there's not another way out of here. Like my grandson's cellar. Makes no sense to have only one way in or out."

Harry's wand light flickered. Honeydukes _knew_ about the passageway? "What?" He asked.

"Has a little path underground. Went along it once. Dead end."

"Really? Can you show it to me?" Harry asked eagerly. This, he thought, might be his way in.

Mr Flume looked at him speculatively. "Might do."


End file.
